The Man at the Red Lion
by 96 Hubbles
Summary: My entry for the 2nd Semi-Annual Hogan's Heroes Short-Story Speed-Writing Competition.  For more details, please see the forums.


_Author's note: As well as our usual Hogan's Heroes characters, I have also borrowed Jack Halford and Gerry Standing from the BBC television show "New Tricks". Therefore, with the exception of Ned Springer, none of these characters are mine and are not meant to reflect on the original works. _

_**The Man at the Red Lion**_

_"One thing about the obituary page. It starts people talking. Men and women who for years have been afraid to open their mouths, they read a four-line item on the obituary page, and suddenly they become garrulous." _

"That's an odd remark, Gerry," Jack Halford said.

"Maybe, but it's true, innit?" Gerry Standing, ex-Detective Sergeant, asked his teammate as the two relaxed over an off-duty pint while waiting to meet up with their fellow Unsolved Crime and Open Case Squad members, Brian and Sandra.

"You're not waiting for someone on the Crowther case to pop their clogs in hopes the others will start talking?" Jack asked with a smile just before he finished off his drink.

"Don't be barmy."

"So what brought this on?"

Gerry shrugged. "Dunno. This place, maybe. Reminds me of a pub I used to go to back in the sixties. The Red Lion." He reached inside his coat pocket for his cigarettes, but stopped when Jack pointed to the no-smoking sign on the wall beside him. Gerry grumbled. "All right, so it's not that much like the old place, after all."

"You're getting old, Gerry."

Gerry snorted. "Well, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black…" He nodded his head towards the bar. "It's your round, Granddad."

Jack laughed as he got up. "You're the one with the grandson, Gerry, not me. Same again, then?"

"Right."

"And do I get the story when I come back?"

Gerry tried to put him off. "What story?"

"Bloody hell, Gerry, I hope you were a better liar in your undercover days."

"Just get the drinks, will you?"

-x-

"_I think the worst of it is," Gerry Standing began some ten minutes later after Jack had returned with two fresh pints, "is that the old geezer was younger than I am now." _

"Fiffy-one!" the drunken man exclaimed, slamming down his pint, causing most of it to slosh onto the bar. "Fif…fee bleedin' one!" he repeated, this time splattering the neighbouring stools.

"And you're wanting a fifty-second, I take it?" the landlord asked wearily as he washed glasses. It was almost last call and most of the regulars had already toddled off home, so Gerry was surprised that the man wasn't making a move to hustle the old sod out. He just looked sad.

"Need a hand, Ned?" Gerry asked.

"Wot!" the drunk answered instead. Swinging around precariously fast, he peered suspiciously at this impudent young pup with one bleary eye. "Oo're you?"

But Gerry was a typical Cockney lad - cocky, but charming when he wanted to be . He held out his hand, not a bit intimidated by the other man's belligerence. "Name's Gerry, mate. Gerry Standing."

"Iznicetomeetyou, GerrymateGerry," the old gent declared. Behind the bar, Ned Springer rolled his eyes.

"Why don't I go in the back and fix you something to eat, Peter?" Ned asked. _Mop up some of that cheap gin, _Gerry heard him mutter under his breath.

"Dossen matter - won't do a bleedin' thing. Ah, but you're a grand lad though, Neddy, for being so considerate. Bernie and Ruby would be proud." Ned just nodded, then mouthed to Gerry, _Keep an eye on him_. Gerry nodded back reassuringly.

"I didn't catch your name, mate," Gerry said to Peter.

Peter drew himself up rather ridiculously. "I am THE NOSE!" he proclaimed.

"Are you now? How'd ye get stuck with a name like that, then?"

"Where's Ned?" the old gent demanded, suddenly frantic.

"He's gone through to the kitchen, old-timer. He's fetching you something to eat."

"Oh. S'all right, then. Fer the…the best," Peter said with a slight hiccup. "Lad's too young to be 'earing a story like this." Gerry nearly laughed; his old mate Ned had thirteen years on him.

Peter - for Gerry knew that much of his name at least - paused dazedly for a moment and Gerry wondered if the alcohol was finally about to bring him down, but then abruptly shouted, "Fiffy-one!" again. He turned to Gerry, sliding a bit wonkily to the left to do so. "Fiffy-one. Do you know what that means?"

Thunder rumbled outside. The black clouds and the patter of rain made the small interior of the pub with its dark wood panelling seem even cosier. Normally Gerry liked a place a bit more modern, a bit more exciting, but tonight he found it soothing and it put him a good enough mood to listen to a maudlin drunk's story.

"No, mate. What does it mean?"

"It means… _it means,_" Peter said, pointing an unsteady finger at Gerry's chest, "that the war was over."

Gerry chuckled. "Was it now?"

Peter disgustedly waved a dismissive hand in Gerry's direction. "What do you know?" he slurred in complaint . "You dunno know what it means! You dunno the diff…rence it makes! That's wot gets me - the difference. War's on, you're a hero. War's over, you're a murderer."

Thunder rumbled again. "Was rainin' that day too," Peter went on. "Absolutely perishing outside. I tell you, old son, never lissen to a bleeding metee-or-ologist. Bloody ponces can't tell nothing more 'bout the weather than the rest of us can by sticking our flaming 'eads out the winnow. And usually less!"

"That's all well and good, mate, but what do you mean _a murderer_?" Even at seventeen, Gerry was fairly worldly, but he was still young enough to take a some old sot at his word if the story seemed interesting enough.

"Why should I tell you the story? Ain't none of your concern!"

"Why not? It'll pass the time. You know Ned's not going to let a bloke go off what's in your condition."

"Iss not my regular condition. But rainy days is worse."

"I got news for you then, old-timer: London may not be the best place for you."

The old fellow looked sad. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned forward and rested his head in his other hand. "Only place I know," he explained, and strangely he seemed more sober. "Been other places - Germany, America - but this is the only place I understand. Older I get, more lost I feel."

A sudden twist of wind pelted the rain in a hard burst against the pub's mullioned windows. The lights dimmed momentarily, but stayed on. When Gerry turned back to look at Peter after regarding the storm for a moment, he saw that the old man had pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket. Tears glistened in the old fellow's eyes and he angrily grabbed for the rest of his drink and downed it in half a second.

"Why should I feel guilty, is what I'd like to know," he told Gerry. "Might not've been a saint, but I did _some_ bleedin' good in me life! Took care of me Mum and me sister, put smiles on some kiddies' faces with my magic act, helped the police in my newspaperin' days, and during the war… And wot'd he ever do, that bastard? He was bloody Gestapo, that'ss wot! Why should I give a toss 'bout helping Andrew…" he broke off and Gerry squirmed with impatience, as if he were seven instead of seventeen.

"Come on, old fella, who's Andrew and what did you help him do?"

"Nothing. Didn't help him do nothing."

Peter's voice was getting quieter; he was almost done with the garrulous and belligerent stage of drunkenness. Gerry sympathized with the man's exhaustion and thought about letting it go, but even though the idea of joining the police was still a few years ahead of him, he had a detective's born inquisitiveness.

Luckily, he also had a detective's instincts for playing it cool. After getting the gin-soaked gent on the outside of several cups of coffee and the hotpot Ned had made, he gently lead his companion on his way back to the story. "Must've been something," he prodded, knowing enough not to sound too interested or it might put the old man off.

Peter passed the newspaper clipping to Gerry. It was an obituary notice. "Look at that," Peter said. "Four lines. That's all 'e got." His sudden sob startled Gerry. "Deserved so much better," he slurred. "Might've 'ad too, if it hadn't been for that bastard Hochstetter."

"Was he the one from the Gestapo?"

Peter nodded. " 'E caught'em you see. Andrew and Louie and Kinch. Finally figured out what'd throw the guv off balance. Took 'im nearly three years, but he learned enough to separate them and get'em out of our range."

Gerry was about to ask Peter what they were all doing in Germany, but Peter's next sentence floored him.

"Shipped off to concentration camps."

"Blimey!" Gerry said, hushed. He wasn't too tough not to be horrified at that.

"Didn't know it at the time, though. Me and the guv were frantic to find'em, but we couldn't. Not that time. The guv tried to make a deal, but Hochstetter wasn't having none of it. Guess he finally figured that out too."

"Figured what out?"

"That 'e wouldn't get no better revenge on the Colonel than that. Than hurting 'is men instead of him. Leastways, that's the only reason I can think of why 'e didn't take the guv right on the spot. Just laughed in 'is face and walked away like he didn't 'ave care in the whole bleeding world. 'E knew it was the guv's turn for fury and futility then."

"So then what happened?" Gerry asked.

"The guv took us home." Peter shrugged as if to say, 'What else could've happened? We couldn't do anything,' but the cost of the decision was still in his eyes and the distance in his voice. "And then, two years after the whole bloomin' thing was over, Andrew shows up in London."

"Just shows up? After that long?"

"Right in this very pub. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Here? You're pulling my leg, mate!"

"Right here. Me sister Mavies had hied off for Australia when she got married, so me old mate Bernie Whitehead, who used to run this place, convinced me to come live with him and his sister Ruby. Ned was here a lot too, though he was only a little lad then. I was writing for the papers then, the Crime section, but it didn't pay much. Not with a rag like 'The Stepney Call' leastways. So I lived here. Even helped out now and again."

"The Nose! That's who you are! Peter 'The Nose' Newkirk! Always able to sniff out the crime before the coppers did."

"You read my column? You couldn't 'ave been more than a sprog at the time!"

"Well…" and Gerry actually blushed. Why he didn't know, other than he had had childhood dreams of being a copper. But his old man wanted him to join him in the butcher's business, at the family stall in Smithfield market, and so getting caught out now in his still hanging on to a boy's fantasy of catching villains made him squirm. He decided to try evasion: "But why did you stop? You were making quite a name for yourself. A big paper would have taken you sooner or later."

"Couldn't bear to keep at it, not after what I did."

"So what was it?"

"Like I said, Andrew showed up. Forty-seven, it was. I was carrying a tray full of glasses from the kitchen and I turned around and there he was, big as life. Grey-faced, hollow-eyed, and weighing a good two stone less - and our Andrew was a scrawny, pinched-looking bloke to start with - he tottered towards me like every limb had been broken and healed badly. Which could've been true, for all I know. And damnit if I didn't drop the whole flipping tray, I was so surprised!"

"In any case," Newkirk went on, "I'd no sooner dragged 'im into the snug back there, when his eyes rolled up and he folded over like dropped towel. Poor sod ran a fever for over a week and a half. The guv had even made over from America before Andrew was in a fit state to tell us anything. But even then, he couldn't tell us much. He wasn't… well."

"How do you mean?"

" 'ard to say, really. The most noticeable thing was that he barely spoke. That weren't like our Andrew at all. "

"Was he ever able to tell you what happened to your two other friends?"

"No. That's when we found out they'd be separated. The last he saw, they were heading north on a train. That was the day after they'd been captured."

"Did he get better?"

"Some. He ended up staying with me here at the pub. The Colonel tried to track down his family, but couldn't find them. And poor Andrew was just too…tired to take care of himself. Not properly."

"So he was still here in fifty-one, when this Hochstetter bloke showed up?" Gerry asked.

"Ruined everything, he did."

"Hochstetter, you mean? What'd he do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Not then. Not that I knew of, at any rate. He did enough during the war, but we had no idea why he was in London. Maybe he was hiding. The guv had looked into it, and he'd never been caught after the war. But here he was walking in Hyde Park on a Tuesday evening, holding a good English umbrella, as if he'd done nothing more in the war than raise geraniums."

"I thought I'd gone mad," Newkirk went on. "I'd tell myself, 'It couldn't 'ave been him. It just couldn't have been.' But when Andrew spotted him as well, I knew. The look on Andrew's face…"

"What? Mad, sad, scared?"

"Like the thing what's been eating at your soul for all your life is suddenly solid in front of you."

"What happened then?"

"I was in a rage. How could 'e be walking around, free as you please, when my friends were hurt and dead? I decided to track him down and confront him. I wanted to know what he'd done with Kinch and Louie, where they'd finally ended up. If I'd been smart, I'd have rung the police and asked the questions once he was firmly behind bars, but I wasn't."

_It wasn't about being smart, _Gerry thought. _You knew what you really wanted to do, and wanted to leave yourself the option in case you could work yourself up to it. _But he said nothing.

"So the two of you followed him home."

"Yes. He had a room in Cheapside."

"Then what?"

"And then we went up. It was the middle of the day - we were free, pub workers' hours being different from most - and the rest of the household was out. He tried playing like he didn't know us, though I could tell he was surprised to see Andrew. But I soon put an end to that. Get thrown against a wall hard enough, and subterfuge doesn't seem worth bothering about, I suppose."

"Did it make him talk?"

"Didn't have the chance to find out."

"Why?"

"Andrew shot him."

He had known it was coming, but Newkirk said it so baldly that it surprised Gerry.

"I don't know where he got the gun," Newkirk continued. "I can't think he had it with him. It could be that it was Hochstetter's; I was busy enough with him, I wouldn't have seen Andrew poking around. But he shot him. He was off to my left and I didn't even see him raise the gun until it was too late. Hit Hochstetter right in the temple."

"I wanted to yell, but instinct took over. I listened carefully, but didn't hear any immediate sounds. No one coming to see what had happened. But it was dangerous too. Someone'd find him, and maybe they'd find out his real name and that would make trouble for the Colonel. For all of us. Slim odds maybe, but I wasn't about to take of me mate Andrew sitting on a witness stand. He was already regressing, standing there stock still like a dress-maker's dummy. Put him on the stand and it would've been the end of him."

"So you covered it up somehow, I take it," Gerry said.

"Wasn't that hard in the end. The obvious first - I took the gun from Andrew's hand and wiped his prints off, then placed it in Hochstetter's hand. The wound was perfect. Andrew had been on my left, so he was on Hochstetter's right. The temple wound was a good one, very like a spot a suicidal person might choose, and the right one matched Hochstetter being right-handed. Even the powder burns were in our favour. But the next part was tricky. The one thing that really convinces people someone's topped themselves, is if there was no way anyone else could get in."

"How'd you work that?"

"Luck mostly. There'd been some boxes down on the ground floor, tied up with heavy rope. I sent Andrew down to nick the rope while I set to finding any kind of tools I could. There was a box with some in a closet down the corridor from Hochstetter's rooms. I took a set of needle-nosed pliers and went back to Hochstetter's room. When Andrew came back with the rope, I looped it under a leg of the chesterfield. Then I shooed Andrew down the corridor towards the stairwell to keep watch, and pulled the rope through the crack under the door."

"And pulled the chesterfield right up to the door!"

"Spot on. It was a fair trick getting the rope undone from the chesterfield leg, but you are talking to a former magician."

"But what were the pliers for?"

"Icing on the cake, me old son. Opening the door just a little ways, I reached in with the pliers and grabbed the end of the safety chain. Took a bit of doing, but I managed to re-hook the blasted thing."

"So with the chain on, not to mention the chesterfield right against the door, it looked like no one could have possibly got in from the outside."

"Worked a treat. At least, no one ever came knocking at our door about it. Could've been part psychological though; when you have a lot of trouble getting in, like the police must've done, that someone else did wouldn't be your first thought, would it?"

"You got away with it."

Newkirk eyes went dark again. "Legally. But we still paid for it. Andrew began to have fewer and fewer good days, though whether that was because of what he'd done, or because the torture he'd been through all those years ago was finally causing his body to break down, it was hard to tell. And I stopped writing for the paper. I couldn't seem to report on crime after committing one meself."

Gerry was quiet for a good long time, but finally he had to ask, "You weren't afraid to tell me all this?"

"After all these years, I had to tell someone," Newkirk explained as he fingered the obituary notice again. "He's gone now. I could never say anything while he was alive, but it can't hurt him any more."

"Still, I could turn you in. You were in accessory. You helped cover up a crime."

"When I started, I was too drunk to care, Gerry Standing, me lad. And by the time I finished, I knew you weren't the type to grass on someone like me. Not for this." He got up and left a few pound notes on the bar. "Besides," he said, "It'd be your word against mine, and while I reckon Ned's a mate of yours, I've known him since he was in short pants. Who he'd back up is a real question."

"He's been cleaning up in the kitchen the whole time! He never heard a thing!" Gerry protested.

A ghost of a smile crossed Newkirk's face. "It's a poor publican who's not watching what's going on in the front room while the doors are unlocked and there are still customers about. Now do us a favour, GerrymateGerry, and walk me to the tube station. I'm not as steady as I should be."

-x-

"So you didn't say anything about it to anyone?" Jack Halford asked a much older Gerry Standing.

"Give over, Jack, I was seventeen bleedin' years old! And not a copper yet either."

But there was no getting around Jack Halford. "You don't fool me, Gerry. You're a born policeman. I can see you not turning him in, but you can't tell me you never looked into it."

Gerry shrugged. "I had a mate who's older brother worked in the War Records Department. He sniffed around, but kept running up against classified records."

"Classified?"

"Stands to reason though, if you think about it. They must've been spies. What else would they have been doing sneaking around Germany and getting the Gestapo mad at them. It's not like they'd 'ave been prisoners of war running about like that, for heaven's sake!"


End file.
